I've just been released from the stocks set up on the red carpet outside the Kodak Theatre. As penance for ranting about two significant flaws in the palace tapestries (see my two most recent flogs), today I shall ponder the reason why we are so enchanted, notwithstanding the imperfections of the king's tailor, by the fabric of its story. Underneath that fabric is a heart that beats in sympathy with Dr. Jung and Dr. Campbell. You won't see their names in the credit roll, but their sway may be detected just behind the arras.
The movie rests its royal head on the satin pillow of a fairytale premise: every sorcerer in the kingdom is charged to cure the prince's stammer, to lift the evil curse placed on him at birth. Then, just when the prince's patience is exhausted with gimmickry and patent formulas, he commands that the search be halted. This is when the noble but suffering hero is usually in danger of losing heart (at a similar moment a frightened and confused Dorothy meets Glinda in Oz). But hark, a lowly toad-like healer from a far-off land ministering with unorthodox spells has been discovered by his princess in a Harley Street basement. Much is at stake here. If the prince's stammer is magically cured, the curse at long last lifted, the prince will be crowned king, and his kingdom will successfully ward off the attack of the fiercest dragon ever to face his people.
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